


In Halls of the Half-elven

by DeepWatersWaiting



Series: The Seaward Road Runs South [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Being Lost, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Council of Elrond, Developing Friendships, Family, Fellowship of the Ring, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Families of Choice, Pre-Family, Rivendell | Imladris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:48:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27737143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeepWatersWaiting/pseuds/DeepWatersWaiting
Summary: The Elf shot him a horrified look, as if the prospect was too horrible to even consider. "Lindir?" He echoed incredulously, "you were stuck with Lindir? The most boring, most pretentious, most irritating Lindir? My lot was with the twin sons of Lord Elrond and a most grievous lot I had believed- but Lindir?""Indeed I was," Boromir said gravely, though his words were full of levity and quiet humour, "and I am glad to meet a fellow of similar feeling and a veteran of such an experience as scarring as mine. Boromir of Gondor, son of Denethor, at you service.""Legolas Greenleaf," the Elf introduced happily, his arms swinging at his sides in tandem.Lost in Imladris, Boromir didn't expect the help and company of a young Mirkwood Elf.
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Legolas Greenleaf
Series: The Seaward Road Runs South [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026904
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	In Halls of the Half-elven

**Author's Note:**

> **disclaimer.**  
>  All belongs to PJ and JRR Tolkien.
> 
>  **notes.**  
>  In a series of AU oneshots, this one- and the next few- will remain remarkably, if not totally, faithful to a combined canon of both the books and the movies. Canon should begin to diverge fully after the trilogy ends.

October 25th 3018, T.A

* * *

Boromir was not _lost_.

Perhaps the halls of Imladris spun away from him like a ball of yarn did when dropped down the stairs of Minas Tirth's highest tower, perhaps he had been wandering this way and that for what felt like an unfathomably long stretch of time, but Boromir, Captain of Gondor, Son of the Steward, Heir of Denethor, did not get _lost_. He merely took the long way to most places, allowed his feet to take him where they willed and showed up to his preconceived destination after a length of time. This far into his life, his method of travelling had served him well enough in the wilds that he had seen no reason to attempt to change such an approach, though the disdainful and bemused stares of the resident Noldor Elves as they watched him muddle his way through corridors were judgemental enough that the man almost wished he had agreed to allow that Lindir fellow to give him the tour. Only almost though, because that Lindir fellow had also came across as one of the most boring souls Boromir had had the misfortune to meet, scolding him for trekking mud through his pristine halls though Boromir had very nearly died to make the hoity-toity Elf council he couldn't actually care less about.

Faramir would have accepted the tour graciously, he knew, with a genuinely interested smile just for Lindir, who Boromir was sure he would have gotten along famously with. Himself on the other hand could never have bothered to pay attention to each particular detail Lindir had seemed bursting to share- even if the history of combat that came alive in the rich tapestries of colour were appealing to Boromir's military mindset. Therefore, by extension, Faramir would not have gotten hopelessly lost looking for the hall where lunch was being served and unable to ask for assistance at the worry of painting the people of Gondor in an almost incompetent light. 

_Oh, look there,_ he could imagine the Elves saying, _the idiot citizens of Gondor- can't find their way around to save their own lives, can't navigate a simple route without a path of fire set there by the Valar and even that's a stretch!_

A dark-haired Elf-maiden seemed surprised at the venom in the glare he shot her when he stalked past, scarpering away as if he were a wild Warg with blood dripping from his jaws instead of an irate man she could no doubt swat like a fly and squash beneath the sole of her ridiculously impractical felt boots, but he couldn't bring himself to double back after her and apologise for his misconduct, nor could he bring himself to feel anything but the smallest pinprick of regret for her. After all, it was hardly her fault that Boromir was starving, exhausted and dreading whatever stuffy council the Elves had designed to bore him, and whoever else were the unlucky individuals lumped with him, to death.

The Halflings, he supposed, would be integral- the tiny folk that everyone had been nattering on about with abandon. The four of them had evidently caught Imladris by storm with whatever it was they had done, though they seemed ordinary by Boromir's standards, albeit with bottomless pits instead of stomachs that could quite comfortably shovel down more food than even he could. Meriadoc, Peregrin and Samwise he had heard they were called, if the horrified cries of dismay that followed them (mainly the names of the former two but Samwise by extension) like a plague of locusts. The final member of their party was Frodo, who had, as he understood it, been mortally wounded by a Morgul blade and on the threshold of death; mentions of Frodo had been much more reluctantly forthcoming and the Elves he had talked to at breakfast had made sure to steer the subject firmly away and toward something else.

A mystery as compelling as the presence of Dwarves from Erebor and the Elves of Mirkwood, both of which parties Faramir had mentioned as being at odds with the Noldor- the Dwarves bearing a lesser degree of hatred of a set of Elves when compared with the animosity between the Elvenking's realm and Lord Elrond's apparently. If Boromir had not witnessed the tension at breakfast and in the corridors between the Wood-Elves and the Noldor he wouldn't have believed his brother, remembering as clearly as he did the prejudices of Dwarves when he had infrequently had the opportunity to converse with them- it had seemed their hatred was easy enough to slip into conversation and Boromir had took them for the bitterest of enemies. Grudgingly of course, Boromir was now forced to accept his brother may have been right.

If it had not been for the strange Ranger who had accompanied the Halflings and of whom both the Noldor and the Sindar/Silvan people seemed to be fond of, he was convinced that breakfasts would have ended up in fisticuffs between a dark-haired Elf from Imladris and his redhead antagonist from Mirkwood, who had both hurled pointed barbs at one another until 'Strider' stepped in and silenced the both of them, the maiden with considerably more difficulty. He was to be in the council as well, if intelligence served Boromir correctly, the scruff who barely passed for a creature of the Valar, let alone a man. And he had thought this council was halfway _important_ \- instead it was full of the riffraff who even the Orc bands of the Misty Mountains would have been disgusted of.

His father would be furious to have been insulted in such a way.

Another corridor took him past the library doors, flung wide open and letting the smells of dried parchment flood the corridor- once more Boromir was reminded of how much Faramir would have loved the Elven home and would have eagerly devoured every manuscript he could when he had the time whilst Boromir just felt the overwhelming urge to sneeze.

The tapestries hung beside the door on the other hand- Boromir most definitely was coming back when he had the chance to stumble across the corridor again. A massive woven masterpiece depicting some ancient battle in which three armies of Elves attempted in vain to close around a force of fell creatures- he could tell even now the charge was going to fail, the last force hurling themselves into battle after half of the other two forces had been decimated. It was sad, seeing the individual Elves picked out as best the artist could render them and knowing they were to die- the expressions of the Elven caricatures were each terrible in their rage and grief, fey beneath the banners of seven pointed stars and the soot-stained sky. Boromir moved on, dragging his feet this time and sneaking looks of the tapestry until it vanished from sight and just as before, the hallways and passages and stairwells and corridors fell away in a warren of rights and lefts beneath his feet.

Boromir could hardly care less about lunch anymore, and more so about the council he was slated to join and the ramifications of being late.

After another half an hour of fruitless wandering, having finally come to the conclusion that he was going to attempt and seek out someone not as dull as Lindir to provide a tour later on, Boromir gave a low cry of anger, his foot slamming into the door with a crunch of what he was pretty sure were his bones. "Blast!" He cried, one hand going to his foot as he hopped like an awkward, one-legged seagull across the hall.

"I would not have done that if I were you," a jovial voice from over his shoulder told him, musical with amusement.

Whirling around with his heart in his throat and little more an embarrassingly mangled gasp escaping, Boromir sought-and found- his new companion. At first he thought he had seen his first Elf child, young enough looking was the lad to be so- even if it were a child reaching his majority soon; then he recognised the insignia and garb of the Mirkwood warriors, the brown and green uniform that made them look like Wood-Elves more than the sight of them conversing with trees had. He was taller than Boromir by a head at least, though Boromir was taller than most himself, yet lithe and skinny, a dancer's build with the hollow bones of a bird. Contrasting immediately to Lord Elrond's people was the fact he had not dark hair but a silver-blonde that fluctuated for the most part between a pale white-gold he did not know came naturally to the Sindar and the Silvan and a less common (but still seen) silver in some strands that looked like starlight examined under the guise of night. He was pale enough that Boromir was almost worried he had stumbled upon a ghost, bruises staining underneath his wide blue eyes a sign of fatigue he had never seen exhibited by the Elves, but handsome by even the standards of Gondor, who preferred their men to be men.

Boromir recognised him dimly as one of the Elves at breakfast- he had sat beside the red-haired Elf and helped the Ranger separate her from the dark-haired one, talking her down with urgency when it had seemed she would use her butter knife to carve furrows into her opponent's face.

 _Still_ , Boromir thought, _very much younger than the others Elves I have seen so far- a child barely and no doubt for this council of Elrond!_

The Elf-child laughed lightly. "My apologies, my lord, for it appears I have startled you."

"Just a bit," Boromir returned wryly, hoping he sounded cordial at the very least for it would not do for the young Elf to be scared of him the way the Elf-maiden had been- Boromir had always been fond of children, ever since he had helped raised Faramir and the Elf-child's eyes reminded him of his brother for some strange reason he couldn't quite grasp, forlorn and lonely, aged beyond all reckoning. "I was not expecting the company, to be frank."

Delayed by a short heartbeat of silence, the blonde gave a jerky bow, one hand going to his heart. "Then I shall take my leave of you, my lord," he replied seriously, "and leave you to your own company."

Had there been such dismissal in his tone, Boromir wondered surprised as he watch the Elf turn to leave, to chase off the affable soul that had so readily approached him in such little time. Faramir would say there was- to his brother there was apparently some gruffness to his visage that gave him an almost permanent appearance of annoyance, as if he were racking up a list of failings in a person and preparing to utilise them- but he had not thought he had been anything but distantly polite, as one was usually to a stranger in a strange place. For one moment, Boromir contemplated letting the Elf walk on and returning, as the Sindar/Silvan had referred to it as, 'his own company' on his wanderings through the maze of halls until he located the setting for the council; then he watched the Elf begin to turn a corner, blonde hair refracting the lazy Imladris sunlight that drifted through the windows to highlight the spinning motes of dust suspended in mid-air.

"Nay, do not do so- such company should not go amiss," Boromir called out, jogging forward after the young Elf and catching up easily when the other paused, one foot hovering mid step. "I meant only that I am..."

"Wandering?" The Elf filled in, cocking his head to one side and facing Boromir with an undeniable expression of curiosity. "Very well then! I shall join you on your meanderings to assist in anyway I can, though I fear I too am wandering for our hosts are lacklustre in their vaguest of directions- I have spent all night wandering the halls in search of my bedchambers and I do believe I have finally cracked the layout of this Noldor architecture of doom."

Boromir laughed, a sharp bray of laughter that threw his head back with its vehemence and the Elf joined in after a silent moment of appraisal, a lilting twittering that sounded more like birdsong than a laugh, water twinkling on rocks and pebbles spinning into the Sea. His steps felt considerably lighter when they next set off down the corridor, a friend by his side and a smile on his face- he wished Faramir were there, if only to see that Boromir was (moderately) good at making friends amongst strangers. But the absence of his brother, that had weighed heavy on his mind throughout his travels, seemed almost lighter- whether it was because of the company indeed, or the fact that the Elf-child had something about him reminiscent of his brother about him, or maybe because he had found a kindred spirit in the other, both out of place amongst the Elves of Imladris and uncomfortable within the walls. (Boromir had watched from the corner of his eyes as the Elf adjusted his stance as if cringing away from the walls and the tapestries that adorned them.)

"Lindir?" He asked finally, their laughter having trailed off into friendly silence.

The Elf shot him a horrified look, as if the prospect was too horrible to even consider. "Lindir?" He echoed incredulously, "you were stuck with Lindir? The most boring, most pretentious, most irritating Lindir? My lot was with the twin sons of Lord Elrond and a most grievous lot I had believed- but Lindir?"

"Indeed I was," Boromir said gravely, though his words were full of levity and quiet humour, "and I am glad to meet a fellow of similar feeling and a veteran of such an experience as scarring as mine. Boromir of Gondor, son of Denethor, at you service."

"Legolas Greenleaf," the Elf introduced happily, his arms swinging at his sides in tandem. "You are the son of Finduilas from the Sea, are you not? You look like her in both face and manner."

Weakly, Boromir nodded, unsure as to why he was surprised that the Elf had known his mother- the late Finduilas had made no secret of the many occasions that she had wandered in the twilit woods of Mirkwood as a girl, wild flowers woven in her hair and under of tutelage of the Wood-Elves. He had never been described in her likeness however, and the feeling was not at all unpleasant.

"Are you for this council as well then?" Boromir inquired, glancing towards Legolas with a mimicked tilt of his head and small smile.

"As a representative of the Greenwood, yes," Legolas confirmed, "though I did not know there was to be a Council until my arrival- my arrival here in time was one of pure coincidence and luck. You?"

"As representative of my father," Boromir answered, fingering the ring emblazoned with the insignia of his house and noting the clear emphasis of the word 'Council', which made the capitals obvious in the way Legolas said it. "Have you any idea of what it concerns? This Council?"

"None," the Elf said swiftly, a troubled look descending upon his face as he bounded up a flight of steps, slower than Boromir was sure he usually would but allowing the older Man to catch up with him, "the Darkness perhaps? Shadow descends upon the woods of my home, Orc brigands ravage the High Pass and Goblins pour forth from the Misty Mountains like wine at one of A- King Thranduil's parties."

"A consummate drinker?"

"Appreciative of fine wines," Legolas retorted, the furrow between his eyebrows becoming pronounced. "What brought you to Imladris, Lord Boromir? Did Lord Elrond deign to send a missive acknowledging the worth and insight that a Man of Gondor could provide to the Council?" An old fury was kindled in Legolas's tone, indignant and proud as if some insult had been done personally.

Boromir mulled over his answer a moment before replying, weighing the idea of confiding in a random stranger the dram that had brought him hence and the bias that had ensured his journey instead of his brother's. "I had a dream," he said after a moment, choosing his words carefully, "my younger brother and I both dreamed of a shadow from the East warring across the horizon with a light from the West and a voice that descried the arrival of Isildur's Bane. My father had heard that Lord Elrond Peredhel knew much of the lore of old and sent me to gain counsel from the Eldar. I was invited to seek my answers today and weigh in with others minds from across the lands."

"A prophetic dream!" Legolas exclaimed softly, "you and your brother are blessed truly by the Valar, Lord, for few amongst even the Eldar have dreams of the future bestowed upon them so."

"Then Faramir is doubly so for he has had the dreams more frequently than I!" Boromir laughed, ruefully shaking his head as if it were to be expected- it was really, Faramir had always been better at most than Boromir.

Legolas smiled absently, ducking his head down at his feet as they turned a corner, introspective in a sudden swoop of a mercurial mood swing that Boromir had not expected to descend as suddenly as it had, though he understood it. Of all Elven realms, Boromir had always felt the most affinity for Mirkwood- the tales of a constant struggle against fell creatures and the Shadow from Dol Guldur had arrested him from the first time that Faramir had lectured him on the realm of King Thranduil, the parallels between the Sindar/Silvan kingdom and Gondor itself striking a poignant chord of recognition within him. If he had been faced with the possibility of an increase in evil around his people, told from someone else whilst away from home where he could protect them, he didn't know what he would do. Hare off on horseback to return to Minas Tirith, he guessed, armed to the teeth and with the intentions to do battle with whatever spawn of the Dark Lord he happened across.

"I came to Imladris," Legolas began slowly, his voice rusty with grief and loathing, tight as he struggled to regain control of his emotions, as if ashamed, "because I was entrusted with a task of utmost importance by Mithrandir and Estel- who you may know as Strider-, to guard this foul creature they had hunted across the land for nigh on a decade or so, to rehabilitate it if possible. We took this _Gollum_ and we looked him in a cell, brought him food and sung songs of starlight, and he got better. Stopped coughing and choking, stopped talking to himself. So we took him outside on quick, daily walks- he was always under guard, never left unattended but...Orcs came and they ambushed us and Gollum escaped and my Elves are _dead_..."

The Elf scrubbed a hand fiercely though his hair, dashing it under his eyes and scowling; Boromir, tentatively, looped an arm around the other's shoulder, drawing him in and the Elf fell into him unresistingly, his walk wobbling unevenly now. Warriors had a code, Boromir reflected, for he would not have been able to do this with any random civilian stranger and have them understand as completely as Legolas clearly did for did not know the feel of hilt in hand and blood on blade, they did not know the means to comfort one who had been faced with war and combat their whole lives.

"I fear a great darkness is coming," he remarked quietly, voice muted with sorrow, "my condolences for your kin."

Legolas looked over at him. "And mine for yours- your mother especially. She was a good soul."

There was a clatter of running feet slapping staccato against the floor and Legolas pulled back, just in time for the redhead Elf to career around the corner. She was clearly irate and harried, hair flying out of its constraining braids and her cheeks full of colour- Legolas wisely took a step back when he noticed the dangerous glittering of her eyes and cast a fleeting smile back at Boromir, all traces of sadness replaced by a dry humour that suggested the redhead Elf had arrived in such a manner frequently and that he himself was mostly the cause of such an appearance. Boromir remembered the days clearly when it had been him the guards were chasing after, for stealing all the spoons from the kitchen or illicitly stealing a horse from the stable to go out riding.

"It appears we have arrived at the Council, Lord Boromir," he said, his eyes twinkling in mischief, "and that we are on time."

"Just!" The redhead barked, unceremoniously gripping Legolas's forearm and manoeuvring to frogmarch him into the room with a scowl of annoyance. "If you were late, Legolas..."

The door went to close behind them, the redhead's voice trailing off, but Boromir's newest companion managed still to poke his head out the door and give a jaunty wave before pretending to tip an imaginary cap. It was a small gesture and yet there was a weight of freedom, happiness, that clung with an innocent youth to it- Imladris was not as bad as Boromir had thought it would be and he schooled his expression to faintly amused neutrality before entering the Council, feeling lighter than he had in an age.

* * *

to be continued.

**Author's Note:**

>  **next in series.**  
>  Stronger Than Morgul-Spells: At the Council, all is revealed. Along with the identity and allegiances of Boromir's newest companion


End file.
